Someone to Watch Over Me (21 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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“I got a thousand minutes a month, though I doubt I'll use 'em all.”
I disagreed, “You say that now, but once you get used to calling for the least little conversation, a thousand minutes won't be nearly enough. What about texting?”
“Unlimited,” she replied. “Came with the plan, but I really don't get how you type words with all these numbers.”
“Let me see your phone.” I changed her text settings to T9 and showed her how to use the phone's intuitive features advantageously.
“Wacka wacka wacka!”
Eighties children's television. “Come on now, Sandra, the Muppets?”
“I loved Miss Piggy. She made chubbiness acceptable.”
“She was a
pig.
”
“Still, she was the
prettiest
muppet. Everyone wanted a piece of Miss Piggie.”
“For breakfast, maybe.”
She held the time-out sign. “Zinch! Flink! Stop and think. Okay, back to my phone. I was thinking. Remember the throwback sale I mentioned? Okay, everybody and their momma has gone to the barbershop and gotten a phone. And I do mean
everybody
from all sides of the track. So, if we send out Dottie's throwback deal in a text every day at the same time—say ten o'clock, before people have a chance to get up and drive to Henrytown—we could get their money first, before they sprinkle and prinkle on over to Walmart.”
With a hopeful look at me, she prodded, “What you think?”
Truth was, I hadn't given her proposal much thought at all. I was so busy running daily operations, there was no occasion to analyze an entire marketing strategy. I barely had enough time to cover my NetMarketing plans without adding this to my spinning plate routine.
Plus, the store was constantly full of talk about the new Walmart. People wanted to know if we intended to stay open. Rumors circulated that some of Bayford's oldest family-owned businesses had already planned their exit strategies. From Red's Tire Shop to Macie's Craft Closet, owners who feared the worst were closing on their own terms rather than facing uncertainty.
With those circumstances in mind, I couldn't possibly impart false hope. “I have to think about it some more, Cassandra.”
She returned to the quarters, counting all the way to six seventy-five before she addressed me again. “You need to make some decisions soon. I know you have to get back to your real world in Houston, but the rest of us will still be here in Bayford doing life as usual.” She motioned for Elgin to join our conversation.
“Elgin, tell Tori what you said earlier about our customers.” She put one hand on my shoulder.
He withdrew a small piece of paper from a hidden compartment in his apron. “Well, I've been keeping track of our traffic. Seems like we get a lot of folks in here from three till five, getting stuff for dinner and such. Plus the kids are getting out of school. But that's only for now. When it gets hot outside, people get out early in the morning or they'll wait until closer to sundown.”
Cassandra grabbed my hand and Elgin's, and led us to the back office, where she literally unrolled an elaborate chart detailing store trends, best-selling items, and other factors to consider with the throwback plan.
“You've really thought this through, huh?”
“Had to. I've been watching you and”—finger quotes—“overhearing. When you talk to the people at your job in Houston, y'all talk numbers. I do numbers, too.”
“Clearly.”
Elgin remarked, “Looks like a real professional put this chart together.”
“Shazaam! I
am
a real professional!”
We laughed at her antics. That Cassandra was something else.
Chapter 22
D
eAndre's baseball practices consumed Tuesday and Thursday evenings. True to his word, Jacob taxied a vanload of little boys to and from the middle school diamond. The brisk spring air, still clutching remnants of cooler days gone by, beckoned Bayford occupants outside to enjoy the last round of tolerable outdoor activity. It was simply too pleasant to spend time indoors.
I packed up Aunt Dottie and her wheelchair, and we trailed the van across town to watch DeAndre and his poorly coordinated teammates practice. They were supposed to be the Yellow Jackets, but they looked more like the Bad News Bears out there on the field. Dropping fly balls, running bases at a snail's pace. Jacob and the father of one of the boys, assumably an assistant coach, could barely keep straight faces watching the team train.
Our first game against the Longhorns forecasted a miserable season. Of course, the boys didn't really care so much whether they won or lost so long as they got their after-game snacks. Sometimes I wondered if they even realized how badly we'd been pounded by almost every team we faced. Jacob always praised them for their effort no matter the score. The boys were oblivious.
Joenetta and Ray-Ray came to a few of DeAndre's games. DeAndre was absolutely beside himself when his father sat in the stands. However, I think I scared them off when I asked Ray-Ray if he could contribute to the cost of DeAndre playing baseball. My exact words were, “Is there any way you can put twenty dollars toward his registration fee? Not right away, just whenever you get the chance.” I give him some credit. He didn't lie and say he would when he knew he wouldn't.
With the advent of a nonstop communication signal anywhere in town—courtesy of the future Walmart—I invested in a mobile wireless connection. Now I could get on the Internet anywhere, even outdoors, which made my life considerably easier. My only excuse for going to the library now was to get books for DeAndre. Since he'd been forced to spend more time with me, I begged the librarian to work with DeAndre and find books he would enjoy. After a few hit-or-miss authors, he fell in love with a faith-based series about the adventures of a young boy with ADHD. I even had to stop him from reading one Sunday in church.
After that particular service, Senior Pastor Carter invited us to their home for dinner. Now that Aunt Dottie had improved visibly, she might be able to accept such invitations. “You sure you up to this, Aunt Dottie?” I asked as we followed behind the Carters in my vehicle. Sarah, Aunt Dottie's speech therapist, had cautioned me against putting Aunt Dottie in situations where several different dialogues occurred simultaneously. Aunt Dottie might get overwhelmed by the words whizzing past.
Aunt Dottie patted my arm, assuring me she could handle this.
I almost didn't want to take DeAndre to dinner with us, though, because he was so impatient when it came to boring, grown-up talk. And his table manners needed some serious upgrading. Unfortunately, Joenetta sharply declined when I told her why I needed her to babysit DeAndre.
“Why you tryin' to get all goody-goody with the pastor?” she contested.
“We're just breaking bread together.” Not that I owed her an explanation anyway.
She insisted, “I know what you're up to. Trying to seduce the pastor's son to swim in your hot tub of sin.”
“What are you talking about?”
“People been talking about you two runnin' off to some place in Henrytown, supposed to be some kind of coffee place. Don't no black people I know hang out at no coffee house long as you two been there.” She added, “Ain't that many coffee beans in the world.”
I didn't even answer her. I made up my mind right then and there—Joenetta was officially on my I-choose-not-to-deal-with-you-anymore list, right up there with my mother, my biological father, and Mr. James.
Back when I was in college and on-campus counseling was free, I'd talked to a psychotherapy intern about the gulf between my mother and I. He'd asked me if I
wanted
to fill it. That was the first time I'd ever been given the option to let my mother go if she didn't want to be tethered to me. Let Margie be Margie. We talked a little about personality disorders—when people, for a plethora of reasons, have a hard time sustaining lifelong relationships outside of what's required of them. For as much as she'd fussed and complained about me, she made sure I had food, clothing, shelter, and even insurance. She didn't abuse me physically, and she generally did what she thought was best for me.
“That's more than I can say for half the parents of people who come through this door. I mean, I think it's sad that your mother has chosen to cut ties with you, but you can live a full and complete life without her,” he'd cheerfully informed me. “She believes she fulfilled her motherly duties to you. She has a right to move to Africa and live life within her definition of peace. You have to make up in your mind. She doesn't owe you anything.”
Well, it was past time to stop trying to make sense of Joenetta. She was what she was, and I wasn't going to let her bother me anymore. She didn't owe me anything. She didn't have to act right, do right, be right. All she had to do was pay taxes and die. No, make that die, because she didn't have a job or property.
Jacob Junior, his sister, Priscilla, and Priscilla's family—husband and three teenage children—joined us as well. We crossed the unhealthy threshold only three minutes into dinner, when First Lady Carter produced a basket of hot, buttery rolls drizzled with honey. No doubt, I'd be forgetting carbs today.
“Certainly enjoyed your sermon this morning, Pastor Carter,” I complimented him. Though father and son had two different preaching styles, they both packed potent messages.
“Thank you, Sister Tori. Ain't nobody but the Lord.” He smiled at me with the same warm eyes his son possessed. Even at probably twice our age, Senior Pastor Carter's handsome features hadn't faded. I wondered if Jacob Junior would age as gracefully. Looking at both his parents, his gene pool was definitely well maintained.
We passed oversized platters around the table, each person spooning or forking generous helpings of turkey, dressing, yams, and green beans. DeAndre smacked heartily, rudely, at the table. I whispered to him, “Slow down. The food's not going anywhere.” You'd have thought we didn't feed the boy.
When he stuffed another humongous spoonful of yams into his mouth, I gave him the evil eye. Jacob did even better. He asked sternly, “Didn't you hear Miss Tori ask you not to eat so fast?”
Casting an anxious glance at his coach, DeAndre placed the spoon beside the plate and deliberately prolonged the swallowing process, one portion at a time until he'd downed the entire mouth full of disobedience. “I'm sorry.”
Having watched Jacob and DeAndre's interactions on the field, I was always amazed at how quickly DeAndre responded to Jacob's discipline. Aunt Dottie helped me understand, in writing, that their interaction was a man thing. Whatever it was, I was thankful for Jacob's influence. Using Jacob's name was right up there with invoking Santa Claus. If DeAndre got testy about practicing his spelling words, I'd threaten, “Uh, don't make me call your coach.” Problem solved.
“Is it Thanksgiving?” DeAndre wanted to know.
Pastor laughed. “Well, it's not the Thanksgiving holiday, but every day is a day of thanksgiving.”
“Aaaama.”
Time froze. Every eye zoomed in on Aunt Dottie. She slurred again, “Aaaama.”
Joy flooded through every inch of my frame. “Aunt Dottie, you can speak!”
“She said ‘amen,'” DeAndre translated.
“Praise God!” I exclaimed, hugging my aunt. Tears spilled from my eyes as I cried into her shoulder. “Thank You, Lord.” My Aunt Dottie was back. I'd heard grunts and sounds from her since the stroke, but this was the first intelligible word I'd heard from her lips since arriving in Bayford.
The table rejoiced with me, and laughter soon accompanied our elation. “We won't be able to keep her quiet now,” Pastor teased.
Aunt Dottie pointed her index finger at him. “Waa ou.”
Again, DeAndre interpreted. “She said ‘watch out.'”
I'm sure the meal First Lady Carter prepared was scrumptious, but I couldn't savor it. My taste buds took a backseat to concealed emotions coursing through me. When Aunt Dottie spoke, my whole world changed. There was light at the end of my tunnel. Sooner than later, she'd be able to comfort me with words, advise me, convey her needs.
Tell me she loved me.
On the way back from Pastor's house, DeAndre asked if he could spend the rest of the day outside with several friends. They had big plans to build a fort in Chase's backyard. “I finished all my homework already,” he added to clinch the deal. Given Chase's foot incident and DeAndre's treadmill episode, I really wasn't sure this whole fort thing was such a great idea. This proclivity toward accidents wore my nerves thin.
“I don't know, DeAndre.”
“Why not?” he protested. “Chase's mom will be home.”
“Yeah, but she probably won't be outside to make sure you guys don't burn down the neighborhood.”
Aunt Dottie tapped my shoulder. “Bah.”
I couldn't make out her words. “Say that again.”
DeAndre piped up, “She said ‘boy.' ”
She nodded. Boy. I drew a deep breath, filling in the gaps with my own reasoning. I would have to accept the fact that this was the way of boys. Trying things, getting hurt, learning lessons. But why did their lessons have to involve stitches and gauze?
“DeAndre, how do you know what she's saying anyway?”
“She talks to me all the time,” he revealed. “I seen what Miss Sarah did to help Aunt Dottie talk, and I practice with Aunt Dottie every day even after Miss Sarah leaves. At first I couldn't understand Aunt Dottie, but now I do.”
Giggling from Aunt Dottie.
 
Cassandra got in the habit of texting encouraging words to her phone contacts throughout the day. Like clockwork, my phone chimed each morning at ten and every evening at six. Sometimes her message was no more than a scripture, but somehow it was always the right scripture for the moment.
“How many numbers do you have in your phone now?” I asked her at the end of another hard day's work.
“One hundred sixty-seven,” she proudly announced.
I surmised, “That's like every single person in Bayford with a cell phone.”
“You tight-right on that
one,
sugar
plum,
” she forced the rhyme. “And more people keep signing up every day. This contact list will come in very handy when we start the throwbacks.” She winked at me as though I'd already endorsed her plan. “I'm going to keep a pen and paper at the register so people can sign up for the throwback texts.”
“Cassandra, I haven't really talked to Aunt Dottie about this—”
She blurted, “I know, I know. I also know that Aunt Dottie will support anything that keeps the store open. So, what do you say? We'll start with sugar next week. Five-pound bag for a quarter, while supplies last.” She jerked her eyebrows up and down.
What did we have to lose? “Okay.”
“Yowza!” She held up both hands for a high-five. “Hit me, my sister.”
I obeyed.
“Don't worry, Tori. God's going to see this through. I can feel it in my spirit already.”
Then she and Elgin holy danced around the store singing, “I've got a feeling everything's gonna be all right.”

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